


the most golden of us

by alljuststars (allthelight)



Category: Gallagher Girls Series - Ally Carter
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, Gen, Humour, Light Angst, Missing Scene, OCs - Freeform, Set During OGSY
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-26
Updated: 2020-07-26
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:27:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25536574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allthelight/pseuds/alljuststars
Summary: '“You in a school full of teenage girls?” Etta laughs. “Well this ought to be good.”“I don’t know what you mean,” he says haughtily. “I know Covert Operations.”“I know that you know Covert Operations, dear. What you don’t know is how to teach.”'Edward Townsend and the return of MI6's best ladies, who never keep their thoughts to themselves if they can help it. Set during Only the Good Spy Young
Relationships: Abigail Cameron/Edward Townsend
Comments: 11
Kudos: 14





	the most golden of us

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! I'd just like to apologise in advance for the absolute monster this turned out to be. I just can never keep things short. I keep having the most random ideas and they all end up being 4K+ words, but I hope at least someone is enjoying the ideas my brain spits forth. 
> 
> This came about because I loved writing Etta and Marjory so much (see 'neither advice nor salt', if you haven't read it already, if you'd like to know a bit more about these two. You don't have to for this one to make sense, but it might be fun). I thought they'd find it hilarious that Townsnd was going to teach at the Gallagher Academy, and that they'd definitely have some thoughts about Abigail Cameron that they loved so much. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy this, and I hope you're all keeping safe and well!

The first thing Edward Townsend notices as he walks into the office at ten on a Thursday morning is how quiet it is. The office is rarely quiet at the best of times, and the only moments of utter silence usually occur when someone is on a phone call, or when people’s mouths are too full of lunch and it would just be impolite to continue speaking. Even then silence is not entirely guaranteed. This level of silence at ten am on a Thursday, which is usually peak gossiping time, is so unusual that Townsend half expects to be told that hell has frozen over in his absence.

But no. Etta and Marjory are sitting primly at their desks, typing away as though they haven’t noticed his entrance. Which he knows is impossible. Never mind them working for MI6, they are two sixty-year-old grandmothers. Nothing escapes their notice.

“Good morning, ladies,” he says suspiciously, walking straight over to his desk.

“Good morning, dear.”

“Good morning, Edward.”

The replies are perfectly courteous, but they only arouse his suspicion further. He sits down and turns on his computer, looking over his monitor at the women that sit opposite him. They meet his eyes and smile but say nothing else.

Once upon a time he thought he would relish the day when there was silence in the office. If he knew the reason for such a thing then he might be more inclined to enjoy it, but in the thirteen years they’ve been working together then such a thing has never happened, and, while it doesn’t frighten him, it does concern him to the point where he knows he won’t be able to get any work done if he doesn’t address it.

It’s another irritation to an ever-growing list of irritations, and, frustrated that he can’t even enjoy the peace that has descended on their little space, he says, “Anything the matter today?”

“Nothing at all,” Marjory says far too cheerily. She looks to Etta. “Is there?”

“Nothing at all,” Etta confirms. “We’re having a perfectly lovely morning, as you can see.”

He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose briefly. “Alright, that’s enough. What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” they parrot at the same time, and it’s unnerving in the extreme. Why can’t anything ever be easy with these two?

“This little… _thing_ that you’re doing has to stop now. I’ve got too much to do today without you two acting strange.”

“If that’s the case then why are you coming in at this time?”

He smiles triumphantly in spite of himself. Etta has never been able to resist a dig at him.

“Etta!” Marjory hisses.

“I’m sorry,” she says, but she doesn’t sound very sorry at all. “I couldn’t resist.” Which proves his point fantastically.

“Well at least you’ve made him smile,” Marjory says, motioning in his direction as she speaks as though he’s not even there.

“I know,” Etta says sourly. “It wasn’t my intention.”

“You two break so easily,” Townsend remarks, causing both women to turn to him with daggers in their eyes. “Perhaps we should rethink your place of employment.”

“You wouldn’t last a day without us, Edward,” Marjory reminds him, and he wishes it weren’t true.

“I did quite well on my own before this little unit,” he says anyway. “I’m sure I’ll do quite well after.”

“But what about during?” Etta says. “Of course if you want to go after the Circle on your own then be my guest, but I should warn you that once I’m out of that door I won’t be coming back in.” She points to the door with a long red fingernail, which matches the colour of her blazer. “Would you like me to go?”

“Stay where you are,” he says gruffly, not unused to but not expecting her dramatics. “And explain what you were both up to.”

Etta and Marjory share a look. It’s one of those looks that he often makes him wonder if they’re really long lost sisters, separated at birth. They manage to have these silent conversations in mere seconds, or more occasionally arguments. This time Etta must be the loser, for she narrows her eyes at Marjory before turning to him and saying, “Well, dear, I-”

“We!” Marjory protests.

“ _We_ just thought that you’ve been awfully tetchy as of late, and so we elected to see what kind of mood you were in today before we engaged in any type of conversation.”

It’s true he’s been under more pressure, ever since he’s become the MI6 representative for the CIA task force that’s been created to find members of the Circle. They were working on it themselves, of course, and there’s always been a little back and forth across the pond, but this is different. The Circle are getting bolder, they tried to snatch a _child,_ and as such the CIA is taking things a little more seriously than perhaps they were before. Which is all fine and well, but the person he is assigned to work with can’t be more than twenty-five, and looks as though they’d wet themselves if they ever came across a real member of this ancient terrorist organisation.

That was the start of November, however, and this is January. He’s learned to live with US bureaucracy. No, what’s stressing him now is the fact that said child target of the Circle was brought to London and taken ice-skating at the Tower. What’s so unbelievably frustrating is that she was approached by a member of the Circle when she was supposed to be surrounded by guards, and that those guards were two bloody steps away from said member and they still let him hurl himself over the Tower bridge and disappear.

He interviewed Cammie Morgan, who was far too much like a certain relative of hers for his own sanity, and then he sent her on her way, but the circumstances that brought her here won’t disappear as easily. Joseph Solomon, CIA golden boy, is a member of the Circle and nobody, absolutely nobody he speaks to, seems prepared to accept that fact.

Spies lie, it’s just a fact, but more often than not they simply don’t tell the whole truth. It’s not the same thing. Joe Solomon has somehow done both and it frustrates Townsend more than he can bear. He didn’t necessarily like him, and he’s not sure if he ever trusted him, but he would never have suspected this. It’s not quite the personal betrayal like it is for some people, but it smarts a little nonetheless.

He’s dealt with betrayal before, however, and one that was very personal indeed. He tries not to think about how it’s very possible one could lead to the other.

“I’m in the same mood I’m always in,” he says, because it certainly feels as though this state of exhaustion and frustration has lasted forever.

“For a spy you’re not exactly the best liar in the world, are you, Edward?”

If he wasn’t looking directly at her, he would have sworn that Marjory’s remark had actually come from Etta. “For two people who judged my mood to be so severe that you had to gauge it before you engaged in any type of conversation, you seem to be doing everything you can to antagonise me.”

“Oh don’t be so touchy,” Etta snaps, her moment of consideration clearly all she’s capable of. Now that she’s determined that he’s not about to break down imminently, she’s back to her usual self. “We were simply trying to ascertain if you were alright. Now that we’ve established that you’re as alright as you’ll ever be, we can all get back to work.”

“Maybe it’s _your_ mood that should be gauged, Etta,” he snaps.

He hears Marjory’s sharp intake of breath as she gets up from her desk and makes her way over to the kettle. He can’t blame her for her hasty exit, for though they bicker back and forth all day, his tone had a certain sharpness about it that really should never be used with Etta for anybody’s safety. He knows he hasn’t hurt her, but he’s crossed an invisible line that has never been crossed before. Just another tally to add to the list these days.

“Tea, Edward?”

“Yes,” he sighs, and adds _please_ just in time before he starts another argument about his appalling manners.

“Etta?”

“Yes, please, Marjory.” She cuts him a glare. “I’m going to need several to get through today I imagine.”

And so will he. They’ve been hunting Circle members for years, and their investigations have suffered sudden risings and equally as sudden fallings. They’ve gotten good at rising the rollercoasters. This latest development, however, had a different air about it. They are approaching a final battle. Something final for all of them. He’s not one to be dramatic, but it’s an impossible feeling to ignore. His shoulder aches and he doesn’t know why.

“Do we have any more leads on Joe Solomon?” He asks, attempting to get some actual work done.

“None,” Etta says, and he might be imagining it or it might be a tinge of sympathy in her tone. “I don’t think there will be anything on our end anymore. He’s gone.”

“He was quite concerned for the girl,” Marjory says, stirring a spoon in her mug. It has a picture of a bulldog on it and sometimes he has to try not to smile. “Poor man. He seemed almost mad.”

“The girl is the key,” Townsend sighs, trying his hardest not to launch into a tirade about how a wanted terrorist is not such a poor man. “She’s the key for them and she’s the key for us.”

“And you’re sure she didn’t know anything more when you interviewed her?” Etta asks.

“I do know how to do my job,” he says sharply.

Etta simply rolls her eyes, “That wasn’t a jibe, it was a genuine question.”

He deflates, suddenly realising how tense his shoulders are. “No, she didn’t know anything. I think she’s just as frustrated as the rest of us.”

“Have the CIA gotten anything from the faculty at the school?”

Townsend shakes his head. “Rachel Morgan is still detained at Langley but I doubt she knows anything.” He tries not to remember the way Cammie Morgan, betrayed and alone, had asked for her mother. It wouldn’t do anyone any good.

“There’s no chance she would be a part of this,” Marjory says, the tell-tale sound of a biscuit package opening coming from her direction. “The Circle was involved in the disappearance of her husband and is now coming after her daughter. I imagine she’d quite like to strangle Joseph Solomon right now.”

“I imagine there’s quite a list of who’d like to strangle him,” Etta remarks. “He fooled many people.”

“He fooled everybody,” Townsend says. “It’s what they train them to do. We shouldn’t be surprised, ladies.”

“Yes but he was closer with us than everybody else.” Marjory looks at Townsend. “You notwithstanding, Edward, but the rest of us haven’t known somebody this close who turned out to be a double agent.

“I have,” Etta interjects, and at their surprised looks, says, “Though it was thirty years ago and they were _not_ a member of the Circle. But Marjory has a point. The Baxters knew him, the Morgans knew him. That lovely Abigail knew him…” Etta shakes her head. “He was practically a member of their family.”

“Hence why Rachel Morgan is still detained,” he says tightly, his shoulders becoming ever more tense.

“Oh couldn’t they let her out, Edward? It seems so unfair to keep her from her daughter.”

He looks at Marjory in disbelief, barely able to comprehend what she’s just said. “In case it has escaped your notice, I don’t work for the CIA. I have absolutely no control over what agents of _theirs_ they do or do not detain.”

“I know you don’t work for the CIA,” Marjory snaps, her façade cracking a little, her steel interior showing through the space. “But you work _with_ them. Surely there’s something you can do.”

“I don’t know enough about what’s happening,” he tells her, and it pains him to have to admit it. “Detained doesn’t necessarily mean that she’s imprisoned. She could simply be helping them follow up leads.” Marjory still looks dejected, however, and he’s reminded that this woman with the iron heart has three children and seven grandchildren she loves entirely. “They won’t hurt her,” he says as gently as he can manage. “She’s good.”

“He’s right,” Etta chimes in with a rare show of solidarity. “Her family name is too well known. She’ll be fine, Marjory.”

Marjory’s stricken look lessens, but she still looks unsure as she brings over everybody’s tea and sits down at her desk. She chews on her chocolate biscuit thoughtfully, and silence returns to the office though Townsend can’t say he relishes it. The catching of a Circle member is usually something to celebrate. Suddenly he would like to strangle Joe Solomon himself for disrupting his office and upsetting Marjory like this.

Townsend takes a deep breath, mentally preparing himself for what he has to say. Looking at his two companions, he clears his throat to get their attention. They look up instantly, sharks sensing blood in the water.

“I have something to tell you, ladies.”

“I _knew_ something was off,” Marjory says.

“I haven’t even said anything yet.”

“You don’t have to, dear. It’s all over your face.”

“I don’t think it is, Etta.”

‘Oh no, she’s right, Edward.”

Etta looks triumphant. “I know I am. As I said before, you need to learn to be a better liar. I worry about your lifespan if you won’t.”

“You only worry because you hope it’ll be cut short.” He glares at her, and she glares back unashamed.

“Oh will you two just stop it,” Marjory sighs. “Now, Edward, what were you going to tell us.”

“As I was going to tell you before I was so rudely interrupted-” he gives each of them a pointed look, “-the reason I was late this morning was that I had a meeting with Douglas Harrington.”

Douglas Harrington is directly under the Chief Executive. Everybody knows who he is but people rarely see him. It’s rare to have a meeting with him, and there is still a consensus to be agreed on whether or not one is a very good or very bad thing.

Etta looks intrigued, Marjory looks worried, and it seems that this time the reason for the silence is him. Not knowing any other way to say it, he says, “You’ll be here on your own for a while I’m afraid.”

“Oh however will I cope.”

“Etta, shush!”

He takes a deep breath. “Mr Harrington is of the impression that Joe Solomon is a very valuable lead, and we can’t afford to lose him. He thinks, and I agree, that he will most likely go back to the States and try to contact Ms. Morgan again. With that in mind, and with the support of the Gallagher Academy trustees, it’s been decided that I will go to the school and take the role of the Covert Operations instructor.”

He realises he’s delivered it like a speech, and he realises only now that there was a little, microscopic part of him that didn’t want to tell them, that doesn’t want to go.

None of them say anything for a heavy moment and his last words hang in the air between their desks. Both of them on one side of the room, him on the other. It’s always like this. It’s always going to be like this.

Silence seems to be the flavour of the day and he’s just about to say something to dispel it when Etta beats him to it.

“Perhaps I’m getting old, but I’m sure you just said that you were going to be a teacher?”

He nods, feeling himself start to bristle. “I did.”

There’s another moment of silence, before Marjory bursts out, “You can’t be serious!”

Oh here they go. “I am.”

“You in a school full of teenage girls?” Etta laughs. “Well this ought to be good.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” he says haughtily. “I know Covert Operations.”

“I know that you know Covert Operations, dear. What you don’t know is how to _teach._ ”

He should have known Etta was never going to be his biggest supporter, she never is, but he didn’t expect this level of incredulity. “I know how to teach,” he says sharply. “I’ve trained many junior operatives.”

“Junior operatives and teenage girls are very different kettles of fish.”

“And these are junior operative teenage girls,” Marjory interjects. “Which is an entirely different kettle of something altogether.”

“Don’t forget American. American junior operative teenage girls, who will flay an Englishman like you alive.”

“I think I can deal with the drama of teenage girls,” he says. “American or otherwise.”

“You went to an all-boys boarding school, didn’t you, Edward?” He just looks at Marjory who nods her head. “I thought so.”

“Besides they aren’t all American. The Baxter girl goes there.”

“Oh one British girl out of one-hundred,” Etta mocks. “My mistake, I’m sure you’ll be fine.”

He’s been with MI6 ever since he graduated university. He’s done many missions, worked with many operatives and trained many junior ones along the way. Yes, he may be single and childless, and yes, his experience of dealing with teenage girls is lacking, but he’s fairly sure he can manage it. If he doesn’t think about how much Ms. Morgan infuriated him during their interview, then his confidence is one-hundred percent on this assignment.

“What can they do?” He scoffs. “They’re children.”

“You have read up on the Gallagher Academy curriculum, haven’t you?” Etta looks at him over her glasses. “Or is that another thing you think you’re too good for?”

“They aren’t _just_ children, Edward,” Marjory sighs. “And though I do usually have confidence in you, I’m afraid this one might just be beyond you.”

If he really wanted to then he could get into an argument about this, but he’s tired and stressed and there’s a niggling pain in his shoulder from that wound in Buenos Aries that healed years ago and yet still aches occasionally. He leaves on Sunday and he would so dearly love any loose ends her to be tied up before he leaves, so at least one thing in his life isn’t a mess. An argument would derail them for the rest of the day and he would just, for once, like everyone to get along.

“Well when I return I’ll tell you all about it and we can judge the mission success,” he says through gritted teeth.

“I think I’m going to get my information from an inside source,” Etta declares. “Patricia Buckingham is a good friend of mine.”

“Of course she is,” he sighs, and then, because this is a question he’s always wanted an answer to, “Is Buckingham really her name? Seems awfully convenient, does it not?”

Etta looks to Marjory who smiles slyly and says, “Well wouldn’t you like to know?”

Sometimes it feels like his entire cohort of co-workers is comprised of elderly English ladies who want to get the better of him. It’s infuriating to no end.

He leaves the remark in the air, and logs into his computer – _finally –_ to try and sort through any work that won’t be able to be completed while he’s away. Etta and Marjory natter amongst themselves and it seems like, maybe, everything is back to normal.

“While you’re in America, Edward, will you be seeing that lovely Abigail of yours?”

Suddenly he’d very much like to go back to arguing about his teaching skills, because that only hurt his pride and not his heart.

“I imagine he will,” Etta answers Marjory’s question for him, saving him from having to speak for a moment which is just as well because he’s not sure he could form a sound. “Ms. Morgan is her niece. It’s quite the family matter now. I imagine it’s only a matter of time before their paths cross.”

Townsend manages to unstick his tongue from the roof of his mouth. “She’s not-”

“Not your Abigail, yes I know,” Marjory sighs, getting up from her desk again with the empty bulldog mug in hand.

“And she won’t be there,” he says. “She’ll be off looking for Circle leads. She doesn’t like to sit still whilst people are in trouble.”

A fact he knows all too well, and sometimes wishes he could forget.

“Such a good girl,” Marjory sighs, as though Abby is one of the children he is being sent to teach and not an operative in the prime of her career. “How is she doing?"

“Ah, yes, she got shot, didn’t she?” Etta says bluntly, and the force of it feels like a punch in Townsend’s gut.

“Yes,” he says, struggling to maintain a steady tone. “She did.”

“Did you ever phone her?” Etta looks at him evenly, but he knows that she’s already aware of the answer.

“No.” The word tastes bitter. “I did not,”

He’d wanted to. It was in MI6’s interest to ensure that US Presidential election night went well, as such he’d been in the office when the news had come in that a Secret Service agent had been shot. There had been a nasty taste in his mouth, and his heart rate had skyrocketed, but he’d tried to think rationally. Abby was CIA, and though he’d heard through the grapevine she was involved with the protection of Macey McHenry, there was no reason at all to suspect that she was Secret Service, and even less to suspect that she was the one wounded.

But of course the confirmation had come through eventually, and at first all Townsend could do was sit numbly. The news had sat on top of him rather than sink in, and when it had, he had gone to the bathroom and vomited up what felt like everything he’d ever eaten. He’d sat weak and shaky against the porcelain, and wondered and wondered what he was going to do.

He hadn’t gone home. He hadn’t stayed downstairs in the main briefing room where everybody else was watching the election results roll in. He’d come up to this desk and turned on the TV and sat staring at his phone, wishing it would but knowing it wouldn’t light up with her name.

Rachel had phoned him. Once. A terse, one-minute phone call that he hadn’t minded in the slightest because he knew there were other things for her to be worrying about at that precise moment. _She’s alive._ Her voice had been scratchy and thick. _They think she’s going to be okay. I thought you would want to know._

He had. More than anything. And in the days following he’d looked at his phone so many times and hoped to gather up the courage to call her but couldn’t make himself do it. It had been months since they’d spoken, years since they’d seen each other. What would they say to one another? What would they do?

So in the end he’d left it. He’d found out that she was alright and then he’d declined to think about it, absorbing himself in this Circle business that has really ramped up ever since they tried to kidnap Cammie Morgan. There was plenty of work to bury himself in and it had worked fine.

Until, that is, Joe Solomon came up.

“Oh, Edward,” Marjory breathes, sounding scandalised. She drops a teabag into her cup without breaking eye contact with him. “Why not?”

“Because,” he says stiffly, and realises he has no answer. Because he hates her? Because he loves her? Because he was so afraid what would happen once they were in each other’s orbit once again? “I just didn’t.”

“Well I’m rather disappointed in you,” Etta sighs. “I thought you loved her more than that.”

“It’s not because he doesn’t love her,” Marjory says softly, still looking at him. “It’s because he loves her too much.”

Townsend rubs at his temples, wishing he could feel irritated instead of this strange confirmation, as if he has finally uncovered some deep buried truth. “Can we just stop this? Nobody has ever said anything about love. You two are seeing something that you want to be there. It doesn’t make it true.”

“Pft.” Etta waves her hand in the air as if to dismiss him entirely. “We’re only seeing it because it _is_ there. You’re the one not seeing it simply because you don’t want to.”

“And we simply don’t know _why_ , Edward. Abigail is a lovely young woman.”

“Terribly pretty…”

“Very smart.”

“Such a good operative.”

“Perfect manners.”

“Speaks wonderful Mandarin.”

“Enough!” Townsend shouts. “Enough. We’ve already had this conversation. I know perfectly well that you think the sun shines out of Abigail Cameron, and you know perfectly well that she is a lawless risk taker who does nothing except think of her-”

Then he has to stop, because that’s just not the truth.

Marjory pours boiling water into her mug whilst still looking at him. Etta types away on her keyboard without breaking eye contact. Townsend flicks between them both, unwilling to back down.

“You need to get over it,” Etta says stonily, her lip curling in distaste for good measure. “Whatever happened between the two of you all those years ago, you need to get over it.”

Marjory sighs as she comes to sit down, taking a drink as she walks even though it must scald her mouth. Townsend can’t read what she’s thinking, and it’s a good minute after she sits down at her desk that she says, “You two are good together and you’re throwing it away for no reason. You’re better than that.”

It’s not anger, and it's not the disgust of Etta. It’s pure, ice-cold disappointment, and he finds it odd how much it hurts.

“You two have no idea what you’re talking about,” he says stonily, the only way to deal with it to pretend that he doesn’t care what they think, is indifferent to their approval. With a softer voice, half-lost in his head, he says, “Abigail and I… It just doesn’t work. You need to let it go,”

“We want you to be happy, Edward,” Marjory sighs again. “And we know she would make you happy. We’re just looking out for you.”

“Besides, it’s not as though anyone else is going to do it,” Etta cuts in.

Marjory turns to her, almost scandalised. “Well his mother-”

“She really wouldn’t,” Etta manages to beat him to it. She turns to him. “I’m sorry, dear, but I won’t lie about her.”

Marjory looks unimpressed. “Will you ever tell us why you dislike her so much?”

“‘Dislike’ is rather an understatement,” Etta tells them, just as Townsend was thinking the same thing. “One day I’ll tell you the stories, but I just don’t think I can stomach it now.”

Which is just as well, because Townsend doesn’t think he could stomach it either. “As much as I… tolerate your efforts, I’m afraid it’s just not going to happen. The life we lead, it’s just better if we’re alone.”

“That’s just nonsense!” Marjory cries. “Plenty of operatives get together - _and_ stay together, before you say anything about that.”

“Yes,” Etta says, “why just look at the Baxters.”

He knew eventually that someone was going to point out Grace and Abraham Baxter as an example, and as such he’s prepared for Etta’s remark. There’s an entire essay he could write about why he and Abby aren’t comparable to the two of them, but because he’d actually like to get some work done today, he says, “The Baxters have a similar personality, which means they don’t want to tear their own hair out when they spend five seconds in the other’s company. They also happen to work for the same organisation, which does make things a hell of a lot easier.”

“What does the organisation matter?” Marjory waves the information away like it’s nothing.

He looks at her, unimpressed. “What happens if there’s another Revolutionary War?”

“Really, Edward?” Etta sighs, the frustration evident in every syllable of his name that she never uses. “The Revolutionary War? Is that the best you could do?”

Marjory has one eyebrow raised, her opinion clearly the same. “Really, I don’t think that’s something we’ll have to worry about anytime soon.”

“It’s pathetic,” Etta declares. “Especially since it’s not the first trans-organisation relationship you’ve had.”

“Oh, yes. Not the first time at all.”

“Aright, we get it,” Townsend sighs. “Catherine turned out to be a terrorist. Could we please move past that?”

“Is that what you’re worried about?” Marjory looks mildly alarmed. “That Abigail could be a member of the Circle?”

“She’s not a member of the Circle,” he snaps automatically, just like he’d snapped at the superior who’d asked the question after they all learned of Joe Solomon.

He expects Marjory to look affronted – she doesn’t like that tone taken with her any more than Etta does – but instead she just looks slightly pleased.

The two women look at him expectantly from their desks, wanting him to say more. Don’t they know him by now? Don’t they know that he can’t give them what they want?

“What happened between Abigail and I,” he begins, his throat suddenly feeling tight, “is in the past. That is where it has to stay.”

“It isn’t in the past though, is it, Edward?” Marjory tells him, mimicking his soft tones, knowing that her words will pack a heavier punch that way. “Whatever happened is affecting you now. Nothing has gone away and you can turn a blind eye all you like, but it’s still going to be there.”

He swallows audibly, feeling suddenly very weary. He doesn’t want to think of her and he doesn’t want to speak to her because he’s tired of everything always leading back to her. The memory of the last time he saw her is what he sees in his dreams and the look in her eyes haunts him for days after. Edward Townsend isn’t meant to have a relationship, that last encounter only proved that. He’s meant to be alone. It’s just safer for everybody that way.

Marjory looks to Etta helplessly, wanting her to back her up, needing her input on this. Etta looks at him thoughtfully, her grey eyes studying him for the longest time. He’s known her for many years, has worked with her for many years, and has seen the same look of concentration on her face when she pours over satellite images and encrypted files. It’s the first time it has ever been directed at him.

When she speaks her voice is low and firm, though it lacks any of its usual bite. “She gets hurt with or without you. Forgive it, and let it go.”

He’s only able to meet Etta’s eyes for two seconds, no longer than that, before he drops his gaze and coughs to clear his throat of every emotion suddenly gathered there. He doesn’t bother to ask how she found out. Looking down at the papers on his desk, certainly not looking at them, he says, “Let’s get back to work.” Nobody moves, and it’s all he can do to say, “Please.”

There must have been something in his voice, something must have slipped through the cracks, because just as suddenly they start talking about frozen bank accounts and assets in Washington and Townsend finds he’s able to relax, albeit only slightly, into the work they are all so familiar with. For a few blissful hours, he is able to forget his upcoming trip and he’s able to forget just what family he’s making it for. For a few ignorant hours, he feels like himself again.

It’s only as it approaches six o’clock and they all start packing up that it comes back with a rush. Usually both Etta and Marjory are all ready to go the minute they can, Thursday evenings being dedicated to grandchildren and grocery shopping and husbands that have dinner ready when they come in. A whole domestic life that Townsend doesn’t understand, and has long accepted that he may never do so.

Today both of them are slower, more methodical in the packing of their belongings. He doesn’t know why. He will be here tomorrow. It’s not the same, however. They all know it.

“You know, I almost feel sorry for her,” Marjory says, as she stands and puts on her jacket.

Etta turns to her as she puts on her own black coat and does up the buttons. “Who?”

“Catherine.” Immediately Townsend feels his heart pinch. Seeing her picture on the wall every day is one thing but hearing her name so casually is quite another.

Etta just looks disgusted. “Why would you feel sorry for her?”

“I said I almost feel sorry for her,” Marjory says, sounding affronted. “Not that I did.”

Etta rolls her eyes as she puts on her red woollen gloves. “Alright. Why do you _almost_ feel sorry for her?”

Townsend watches as Marjory cocks her head to the side, looking thoughtful. “Well she made a mistake, didn’t she? Her and her little henchmen.”

“Henchmen?” Townsend looks at her questioningly, knowing that she can’t resist the dramatics when the time calls for it but he’d really like to be on his way.

“You know what I mean,” she waves her arm in the air. “Family’s a powerful motivator and they went for a girl whose family has already lost someone to them once.

Etta nods in understanding. “She would know that. She would know they that aren’t going to give up.”

Townsend understands now, too. “She’s smarter than that.”

Marjory nods. “Exactly. So why would she do it? She must be desperate. She must need whatever that young girl has so desperately.”

“Desperation leads to mistakes,” Etta says.

“And that is how we’ll catch her,” Townsend finishes, feeling somehow lighter, as the three of them look to each other as if they have finally gotten their hands on an elusive piece of the puzzle, and it’s only a matter of time before it all fits together.

He is the last one to leave the office, for once leaving it roughly on time. There are bags to pack and flights to book and all other things that must be dealt with before he can go. For once his shoulders don’t feel so heavy. Catherine has turned the tide for them, has revealed just how much she wants whatever they aren’t giving without a fight. She will make a mistake. Desperation does ugly things to people, and for once he is willing to witness the consequences.

Just as he goes to flick off the light, he takes a moment to look around the space they have inhabited for the past thirteen years. Time passes and it stays relatively unchanged; the people, the pictures…none of it is any different to how it was all those years ago. Now, something is coming, of that he is certain, and when he leaves this place tomorrow evening, he knows that things won’t be the same whenever it is that he returns.


End file.
